


we make a little history, baby

by anomalocaris



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Face-Sitting, Light Dom/sub, PWP, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4117387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalocaris/pseuds/anomalocaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life can be complicated. Orders rarely are.</p><p>She won’t keep him waiting any longer for some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we make a little history, baby

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this, except maybe: there is a serious lack of good smut for these two. I figured I'd help fill the void. Many thanks to Evy, for the fastest beta I have ever seen. 
> 
> Title from Nick Cave's ['The Ship Song'](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4VWKbZkIcM).

“Alright,” Natasha says. “Go on. Get on the bed. Strip for me.”

James blinks at her, eyes very blue and a little soft, already, with arousal. His mouth is wet from where she’s been kissing him. “We don’t have to,” he says, not for the first time.

They’re standing close together, with their hips and shoulders and sides nearly touching, in the dim of her bedroom, the orange glow from the solitary lamp on the bedside table painting his face in warm shadowed glows. She raises an eyebrow at him. “But you’d really, really like it if we did.”

 “Well,” he says, “yeah.”

She grins, catlike. “And _I’d_ really, really like it if we did.”

James huffs a laugh; scrubs at the back of his neck with his real hand. He’s nervous, about scaring her off more than anything, but he wants it, bad. “Well. When you put it like that.”

Natasha reaches out and skims a thumb over his lower lip. His tongue darts out to lick at it. “Stop overthinking it.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“You know what you’re gonna do?” she asks, a little gentler, a little quieter.

“What?” He’s nuzzling and licking at her thumb, like he wants it in his mouth. She’s sure he doesn’t notice he’s doing it. Orders from her always make him more docile.

“You’re gonna get on the bed,” she says, slow, and lets him have it; pushes her thumb just into his mouth for him to lick at, “and then you’re gonna strip for me, all the way, and you’re gonna kneel there like a good little boy with your hands behind your back,” and here he makes a quiet little hungry noise, “and you’re gonna wait there, nice and quiet, until I come back in here and fuck you ‘til you cry.”

James sucks in a breath. “Fuck.”

One corner of her mouth quirks up. “That’s the idea. Can you do that, for me?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Jesus Christ. Yeah, I can. Jesus.”

She pats his cheek. “Good boy,” she says, and gestures with her chin at the bed. “Go on.”

“I—yes, ma’am,” he says, on instinct, and practically scrambles to obey.

“Leave your shorts on,” she says over her shoulder, as she walks off to get ready. “You’re cute like that.”

She can hear him laughing behind her when she shuts the door.  

*

They haven’t done this before, is the thing.

He’d been shy about asking: one of the odd little moral hang-ups he still had, maybe, or just nervous about asking her to take control. She’d had to force it out of him; asked blunt and calm and without judgement what he wanted. Why didn’t matter. Why never mattered.

Natasha had been expecting a worse confession from him, anyway. _I want you to choke me,_ maybe. Or: _I want Steve to watch,_ sure. _I kind of mostly still hate myself and want you to beat the shit out of me._ That one, she’d believe. But instead he’d bitten his lip and shrugged, quiet and nervous and self-deprecating, and said, not looking at her, _I want you to fuck me._

And she’d smiled at him, slow at first and then wider, wider, and raised a brow and said, _I thought you’d never ask._

 *

The harness is expensive, and new, and leather. Real leather: because Natasha, having long been deprived of them, values the finer things in life. She locks herself in the next room and tries it on and takes it off and tries it on again, rocking her hips to test the fit. With panties, or without? These are the difficult questions.

She settles on with, even if she’s sure they’ll get ruined, because she doesn’t get to dress up for him much, and besides, this way she can color-coordinate. The pair she’s got is cherry-red and very expensive: to match the toy, which is also cherry-red and very expensive. It’s one of her favorites out of her own collection. Not so big as to be uncomfortable, but not small, either. One of those abstract modern things that are in vogue these days.  

Natasha feels a little ridiculous once it’s all in place; poses a few times quietly to herself to see the way it all moves. But the straps are soft and comfortable, and not too tight, and she tosses her flat hair to make herself feel more confident, before she grabs the bottle of lube and heads out into the bedroom.

*

She walks in with her head held high. James is right where she told him to be, of course: kneeling on her deep purple sheets, hands behind his back and head bowed, in only his shorts. He looks up when he hears her footsteps. When she pauses at the end of the bed, smile knife-like and expectant, he licks his lips, eyeing the strap-on hungrily.

“So,” she says, and reluctantly his gaze slides back up her body, “what do you think? Yes? No?”

“Yes,” James says immediately. “God yes.”

Natasha tilts her head. “Just ‘yes’?”

He huffs a little sort of laugh. “Yes, ma’am. Please.”

“Better,” she says, and steps closer to run her fingers through his hair, stroking gently. He closes his eyes at the attention. It’s sweet. He looks almost reverent like this, quiet and obedient on his knees in front of her, her shiny new cock bobbing a few inches away from his mouth.

“I like that,” James murmurs. She should chide him for speaking unbidden, but it’s a hard thing to do, when he’s so clearly content.

She hums. “I know you do.”

“Sorry I cut it,” he says, as she moves to lay her hand over the nape of his neck. “I know you liked it long.”

“It’s not so bad.” She ruffles up the newly-short strands there, and grins when he huffs at her, catlike. “It’s kinda cute. I’ll miss being able to tug you around, though.”

“I’m sure you’ll find another way.”

“True,” Natasha says idly, her hand drifting down to his shoulder. He flinches back as soon as her fingers graze scar tissue, the point where blood-warm skin becomes cold steel, and she slides her hand back up immediately, touch light and apologetic.

But it’s James who licks his lips and mumbles, “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, James,” she says. “Another day.”

“Yeah,” he says, and that’s that.

Natasha smiles, and keeps up the gentle exploration, tracing the stubbly line of his jaw. She hooks a finger under his chin, tilting his head up. He gazes up at her. His eyes are clear and grey, a shy little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He likes it like this, on his knees in front of her, more than he’d care to admit to her in daylight. But she knows the truth without needing to be told: he feels safe with her, secure in the knowledge that she’ll tell him what to do, when to do it. Life can be complicated. Orders rarely are.

 She won’t keep him waiting any longer for some.

She curls her hand around the base of the strap-on. His eyes drop to it immediately. “Kiss it,” she demands.

He leans forward, ever obedient, and presses a kiss to the tip.

“Good boy.” She tilts her head. “Now lick it.”

James looks up at her through his lashes as he obeys. His tongue is small and pink and very wet, and he runs it over the already-swollen line of his lower lip before he licks delicately at her cock, just one slow stripe up the underside of the head, flicking over where the slit would be and then gone. She swallows involuntarily; she’s not sure, but she thinks she sees a flash of knowing amusement cross his face.

“Now,” Natasha says, feeling flush already with power and arousal, “suck it.”

James falters, looking like he’s not sure he’s heard her right.

“I told you to suck my cock, Soldier,” she says again, raising one eyebrow. “I know you know how.”

And oh, he blushes at that, bless him, color rashing his cheeks delightfully, but he licks his lips again and murmurs, “Yes, ma’am,” all gravelly and low-throated, before he opens up and swallows down the red tip of Natasha’s cock without any complaints at all.

 He _does_ know how to suck cock, is the thing, though she thought he might: breathes carefully though his nose, sucks at the head a few times, and then takes it down and down and down, until he’s got almost all of it in his mouth, no trouble at all. She wonders where he learnt that.

It doesn’t matter. It’s sweet anyway. She might not be able to feel it but she can _see_ it, and seeing’s a blessing enough, his pretty little mouth swollen and stretched around the cherry-red shaft, shiny and slick with his spit. It’s hotter than she expected, the way he’s trying so earnestly to take everything she’s giving him, suckling happily on her plastic cock like there’s nowhere he’d rather be, and pleasure curls hot and sharp around her spine. Natasha grips his hair and shifts her hips, looking for some friction, her clit already aching just from the sight of him. James doesn’t seem to mind; moans around the cock in his mouth. She could slap him and he’d thank her. Maybe later she will.

“Look at you,” she says approvingly, and his grey eyes flick up to meet hers, hot and dazed with arousal. “Greedy boy.”

He moans again, pleased, and she can’t help it; cups his jaw gently in her other hand and starts to rock her hips. “You like that, hey?" she asks, voice gone husky. She thinks about the nonsense dirty things he calls her: doll, sugar, baby, kitten. None of it really suits him. But he’s a pretty little mess right now, and she tells him that. It makes him blush.

 “I’m serious,” she says. “Pretty thing. Drooling all over me. Want me to feed you my cock, pretty boy? You want that? Hey?”

He can’t answer, of course, mouth stuffed full, but he moans low anyway and squeezes his eyes shut, blushing a deep red to match the cock he’s drooling on. Natasha smiles and keeps on carefully fucking his mouth. She just watches him for a while, pulling back until only the head is resting on his tongue before she rocks forward, delighting in the sight of the shaft disappearing between his lips. When she pushes it back in she rubs her fingers over his cheek, over the distended bulge there where the head of her fake cock is. Such a good boy. Taking all of her, like this.

She glances down at his crotch between slow thrusts. He’s been good: both hands still behind his back, his cock untouched. The tight little shorts he’s wearing are barely enough to cover him. She can see the line of his shaft outlined clearly through the fabric, painfully hard, the cloth stained dark and wet around the head where he’s already leaking precome. She thinks, as she runs her fingers through his hair and fucks his willing mouth, of giving him some relief; of pulling away and making him strip completely for her.

It would make a pretty sight, for sure. She pets the side of his face again and draws back, sliding the cock out of his mouth—he makes a low whining sound when she does, he’s so hungry for her—and just resting it, for now, on his plump lower lip. He opens his eyes; blinks at her a few times. She smiles wickedly and rubs the wet tip of the strap-on over his mouth. He licks at it, kittenish, smirking back at her.

“Well,” Natasha says, “I’m starting to see why you like that so much.”

She’d wanted him to laugh and he does, low and pleased and rough. “Impressed?”

“Don’t get cocky,” she says, smacking him lightly on the cheek with the dildo. For a moment they both snicker like teenagers at the bad joke. She reaches out and thoughtfully touches his jaw. “So. You want to keep going?”

“Don’t tell me you’re worn out already,” he counters.

She snorts. “ _I’m_ fine. You’re the old man in this relationship—”

“Oh, yeah, a whole twenty years older than you—”

“— _so_ I thought you might need a break, being a pensioner, and all. What about it? You need to go watch Antiques Roadshow and play bingo and drink your prune juice, gramps?”

She says it lightly but she’s serious; giving him a way out if he wants it. But James never was any good at saying no to a challenge: and besides, he wants her. That’s clear enough. He smiles crooked up at her, brief and genuine. “Nah. I’m good if you are.”

“Good boy,” she says, and steps back. “Come on, then. Turn over. On your hands and knees.”

And say whatever else you want about these old-fashioned Catholic military boys: they sure know how to follow orders. He bites his lip—in trepidation; in anticipation; both—and does as she commands, shuffling obediently into position in front of her, head bowed, all of him on display, just for her. She kneels on the edge of the bed behind him, settling back comfortably on her haunches. He sucks in a tiny breath when he feels the bed dip under her weight. Sweet thing. So ready for her.

But Natasha’s the one setting the pace, here, and she intends to take her sweet time. She’s only too happy to kneel there and enjoy this; enjoy him. She reaches out to run a hand over his back, and he flinches when she does but relaxes into it fast, letting her ghost her fingertips lightly along the line of his spine, feeling the muscle and the bone there, and, yes, the steel also. When she finally reaches the curve of his ass he tenses, just a bit, but it’s from anticipation more than anything, she knows. She smooths her palm over the thick muscle of his thigh and tugs his shorts down around his knees, letting James kick them the rest of the way off. He’s beautiful, all bared to her like this; Natasha has to bite her lip when she looks at him.

“I’m going to touch you now,” she murmurs. “That okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

Natasha feels around blindly behind her for the lube, abandoned at the end of the bed. When she pops open the cap James practically shivers, bless him, breath picking up a little. He shifts and spreads his legs wider for her without needing to be told. She pours a generous amount of slick out onto her fingers: more than she needs, probably, but more is better than not enough. It drips clear and wet off her hand to darken the sheets. She’s cut her nails for this, too, to make it easier on him, though she likes them long. It’s been a long time since she fingered anyone—not herself, even; easier and sweeter to have his inside her, and besides she’s not much for getting off that way—but she remembers the pain of long nails and winces in sympathy. When it’s all said and done the last thing she wants is to hurt him.

But there’s not much danger of that, if his reaction is anything to go by, when she shifts forward and very carefully rubs the slick tip of her thumb over his hole. The noise he makes is immediate, involuntary: just a little low sound in his throat, edging on a moan. It’s beautifully needy. She does it again and he sucks in a breath, hole tightening up under her touch, and if that isn’t a pretty sight Natasha doesn’t know what is. She does it again and again and then just keeps going: gentle, just exploratory little touches, marveling at the feel and sight of it and the soft sounds he makes. His hole is soft and pink and already slick. She rubs at the rim, at the little bit of furled skin there, massaging soft at first and then firmer, once he swallows a moan and relaxes for her. It’s more—more intimate, somehow, than she expected. Their breathing is loud in the quiet.

“You really like this, huh?” Natasha murmurs after a little while, still rubbing at his hole, breaching him just a little on each stroke.

James swallows. “Yeah.”

 “You should have told me. It’s nice.”

“I, uh, kinda thought I did,” he says thickly. There’s a smile in his voice. “We’re here, ain’t we?”

“Before now. You want more?”

“Please,” he says, spreading his knees apart a little more, exposing his asshole for her. It’s an invitation if Natasha’s ever seen one, and she drags her thumb over him one last time before she drips more lube over her hand and works two fingers inside. He grunts, cock twitching where it hangs heavy and hard between his legs, and Natasha pushes in deeper, feeling the soft muscle give, until she’s in him up to the knuckles.

She pauses like that, with two fingers inside of him, just to feel. He’s blood-hot inside, somehow warmer than she expected, and she tries to recall the heat of her own body, to compare, but the searing immediacy of it all distracts her. She flexes her fingers experimentally; he swallows down a thick groan in response, muscles fluttering and squeezing around her like a vice.

“Fuck,” she says, soft. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

He moans and she can’t help it; spreads her fingers just to watch him opening up around them. He cants his hips back, already looking for more. Fuck, she can’t deny him that. She probes in deeper, gentle, starting to fuck him. Stretching him open. She pushes harder and twists her fingers just right and he jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

“ _Oh,_ fuck,” James says, and it’s more of a moan, cut off in his throat when she smirks and presses again at his prostate. “There. Please.”

“Filthy,” Natasha says fondly. She crooks her fingers and rubs unrelenting over the spot. Not fast; she’s not desperate: slow and firm and unforgiving, while he shakes and gasps under her. She spreads her fingers apart as wide as she can and rubs at his insides over and over and over until he’s a fucking mess, cock dripping, gasping with each push in. When she adds another finger he just rocks his hips and moans soft, real soft.

Pretty quick she’s shoving them in with barely any resistance at all, massaging at his prostate until he’s out of his fucking head with it, panting, squeezing rhythmically around her. That’s when she pulls out, almost all the way. Her fingertips are barely in him; she rubs them over the rim and drags her thumb over his perineum, just to make him squirm, unable to help it. He makes a confused little noise at the loss.  

 “What?” Natasha asks, because she can’t _not_ tease him, not when he looks so fucking pretty. Anyway: she wants to make him beg for it.

James squirms, hiding his face in the blankets, pushing his ass back.

“What? You want more?” she asks again, coy, like she doesn’t know.

He whines like a dog, pushing back in little involuntary abortive movements, trying to fuck himself on her fingers.

“Talk to me, James,” she says, and he shakes his head, like the very suggestion has overwhelmed him.

Natasha draws her fingers back all the way. “Do you want less, is that it? You want me to stop?”

That does the trick. “No! Oh, God,” he gasps, broken. “Oh, Jesus Christ—don’t stop. Please.”

She smiles. She can’t help it. “Tell me what you want and I won’t.”

He shifts his hips restlessly, trying to get her fingers back right where he wants them. “I—unh—you know what I want.”

“I’m not a mind-reader, James,” she says innocently. She pushes her fingers in deep again, without warning, right up to the knuckle, and twists, rubbing firmly right where it counts.

“ _Ah,_ ” he says, the sound startled out of him, and then it’s like some levee breaks in him, and he just babbles, senseless, “oh, _fuck_ —Jesus, Natasha, fuck me, please, gimme it, you know I want it, _please_ —”

She tugs her fingers free and wipes them on the sheets. “Good boy.”

Natasha takes another moment to admire him—his hard breathing; his constant little restless shifts; the thick muscle of his back and thighs—before she moves to grab the lube again. James looks over his shoulder to watch her slick up her cock. She raises an eyebrow at him, lips quirking. “Nobody ever tell you it’s rude to stare? Roll over, pretty boy.”

She doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s blushing again, but he does it, twisting onto his back and squirming around to get comfortable while she pours more lube out onto the dildo. He grabs a pillow and shoves it under his ass to prop himself up, spreading his legs easy for her.

“Eager,” Natasha teases, crawling up between his thighs to get nice and close. The shiny red tip of the strap-on slides over his ass.

James bites his lip. “Can’t help it.” He spreads his legs wider, pulls one knee up, exposing himself again for her. His asshole is nice and slick now, a little red from her ministrations, loose. His cock is all red, too: the tip flushed dark with blood, the thick vein on the underside obvious, precome smearing all over his thigh.

He looks beautiful and she can’t fucking wait any longer. “Okay,” she says, and then, “relax,” and then she curls her hand around her fake cock and starts pushing it into him. She just—shoves it in, nice and steady, and he tips his head back with a groan, the line of his throat bared. He takes it easy, easy as anything, and Natasha watches him take it, his sweet little hole opening up inch by inch. It’s obscene. She’s so turned on she feels dizzy with it.

When she’s all the way inside she pauses, looking at him splayed out and debauched beneath her, around her. His chest is flushed and heaving. He gazes unseeing up at the ceiling, pupils blown, panting.

“Damn,” Natasha breathes, like she’s the one getting fucked right now instead of him. “Jesus. Look at you.”

He groans faintly; cock leaking.

She holds herself still for as long as she can—and it’s _torturous,_ Jesus, and she can’t even feel herself fucking him; soaking wet just from the _sight_ of it, just from the memory of how tight and soft and blood-hot he was on the inside—to let him adjust, to let him get used to the feeling of the thick cock inside him. After a while James squirms, impatient, chewing on his lips. It’s a habit of his, when they have sex, born out of those original precious few weeks when they always had to fuck in silence, afraid of getting caught. He’d bite his lips until they bled, and she’d bite them, too, because he was just so fucking pretty, and because he’d always struggle to stay quiet. Natasha was more charmed than she should have been, when they rediscovered this thing between them, and found he still did that. Old habits.

“You ready?” she asks, now. “You want it?”

“Yeah,” he says. He’s still biting at his swollen mouth. “Yeah, c’mon, I can take it.”

So Natasha starts up an easy rhythm, not wasting her time, rocking her hips nice and slow and careful. He squeezes his eyes shut, his metal hand fisting at the sheets and then releasing, the quiet whirr and click of the servos getting louder as the whole thing heats up with the rest of him. It takes her a while to settle into the notion of it: she hasn’t fucked anyone before, not like this, and it’s difficult, not being able to feel anything. She pulls back almost all the way and pushes in again, a few times, to watch the unforgiving red length of the dildo disappear into his warm body. She shoves it in and in and in until they’re pressed flush against each other, their thighs touching, and grinds her hips in a slow circle to make him gasp.  

She leans over him, scraping her nails light over his sides and chest, through the hair there, playing with the tight little peaks of his nipples, grabbing hold of his slim hips and fucking into him, a little faster, now, her speed picking up in response to the obscene noises he’s making. She rubs at his tits and rocks the thick shaft of the toy further in, fucking it right up against his prostate, right where James wants it, the fat head of it pressing and grinding there again and again.

He gasps, overwhelmed and gone all red, and grabs for his own cock. Natasha smacks his hand away. “Don’t you dare,” she says. “Don’t you dare. Not until I say.”

He whines and twists, writhing on her cock. But he lets his hand—the metal one—fall back anyway, to tangle in the sheets. He’s so _noisy,_ fuck, she can’t believe it. He keeps panting, whining, whimpering. All these little animal noises. His eyes are hazy and blue; a little wet at the corners. This isn’t new. She doesn’t know if he gets overwhelmed by it all, or if it’s just normal, for him.

It’s sweet as all hell, though.

She can’t help it; she wants to kiss him and does, leaning forward and catching his wild sounds and swallowing them down. She nips at James’ neck, his jaw, the very corner of his mouth, and he turns into it with a desperate noise, lips parted as he sucks in shallow hitching breaths. They kiss like that, open-mouthed and wet, sharing the same air. He smells like new soap and old blood and cigarettes. It’s so familiar it hurts, an aching rush of nostalgia pushing up through her, and she makes a noise in her throat and tangles her fingers in his short hair, pulling him vicious against her like she wants to swallow him up, to eat him raw.

It’s too much; it’s not enough: he licks at her teeth and she grabs at his thigh, hitching his leg up higher to hook around her side, until he’s bent almost double, groaning into her mouth. She gives it to him, then, really _gives_ it to him, fucking him with all the strength she’s got, and he pulls his head away from her mouth to drop back helpless against the ripped-up sheets, his damp hair sticking to his forehead, making little overwhelmed noises. “ _Oh_ , oh,” he gasps out. “Jesus.”

“Not quite,” she grunts between thrusts. “Thanks—for the comparison, though. Sweet of you.”

James tosses his head, chest heaving, too far gone this time to appreciate her wit. “Fuck, fuck me, I’m gonna—”

“You close? You want to come?”

He whines.

She keeps moving, rocking her hips fast and firm and deep. “Say please.”

 _“Please,”_ he says, immediately, no shame or hesitation in it. “Ma’am. Please. I can’t—”

“Good boy,” she says, and then: “Touch yourself. C’mon. Lemme see you.”

He does. He gets his right hand around his cock and squeezes tight; the head swollen and flushed a desperate red by now, matching the dildo she’s fucking into him with, his balls drawn up tight. James has a rhythm he likes, when he’s this close, and he settles into it with a gasp now: jerking himself hard and fast, rubbing his thumb just under the head with each pull, tugging his foreskin up and sliding it down again. With every hard thrust of Natasha’s he cries out like he’s being cut open, like he’s being torn apart, and his cock twitches, clear drops of precome leaking out and sliding down his fingers.

Natasha slams her hips against his, hard enough to bruise: pulling gasps and moans from him. She aims for his prostate with each thrust, shoving her fake cock into him right up to the hilt, until the leather of the harness is rubbing against his thighs as well as hers. There’s sweat in her hair, dripping into her eyes, down her throat and collarbone and breasts. She feels hot with it, even though she can’t come like this: her cheeks flushed, her body flashing electric.

Towards the end James starts to babble, scrabbling and tearing at the sheets, bucking up with every hard thrust: just nonsense words of praise and pleasure, over and over. “Ah, Natasha,” he says, wild and drunk on it, fisting his cock, “ _ah,_ God. God, just fuck me, please, baby doll, just like that, _fuck,_ I can take it. Gimme it, _please_ , kitten, unh, need it, want it so bad, Natasha, Natashenka—”

She reaches down and overlays her fingers with his, wrapping her small hand around his cock, twisting her wrist around the shaft as he thumbs at his slit. “Come on, then,” she husks, pushing unrelenting up inside of him, over and over. “C’mon. Look at you, sweetheart. Come for me, beautiful—”

 “Natasha,” James manages to say, squeezing his eyes shut, muscles tensing: and then his cock jerks once, twice, in her grip, and he’s coming, just like that. His back arches and he cries out, hot splashes of come hitting his belly and chest. She fucks him through it, pushing the head of her fake cock firm against his prostate over and over, making more spurts of come drool out slick over their hands. She keeps it up, milking him until he groans, overwhelmed, and loosens his grip.

For a minute all he can do—all both of them can do—is lie there catching their breath. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he says weakly, licking his lips. They’re bleeding a little bit. “Jesus _fuck._ Fuck. You’re a—you’re a fuckin’ animal, is what you are, lady.”

Natasha laughs and presses a kiss to his slack mouth, chasing the taste of iron and salt there, licking inside briefly before she pulls back. She inches her hips back and tries to be careful pulling out of him; he sucks in a breath when she does and it’s got a little more pain than pleasure to it, his softening wet cock twitching one last time against his thigh as he winces.

Natasha leans back, head buzzing. “Okay?”

He groans and shifts, throwing his arm over his face. “Okay. Jesus. Yeah, I’m okay. I’m—I think I’m _dead,_ but sure, I’m okay.”

She smiles a little, because he can’t see it.

“Unh,” James says after a minute, rolling until he’s on his side, propped up on one elbow. His hair is sticking to his face. He smiles at her, dazed and sated and full of filthy promises. His ears and cheeks are flushed a pretty red, spreading down to his chest. There’s a splash of come high on his throat.

“Hey,” he says, “hey, now, ’m not finished with you yet, baby doll,” and oh, Natasha has never wanted to hear anything more. “C’mon. Come up here.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. She unhooks the strap-on with a wicked smirk—he smirks back, anticipatory; sometimes she thinks he likes this more than she does—and tosses it haphazardly at the floor, and clambers up the hard warm length of his body, kicking her soaked panties off as she goes. She grabs onto the headboard as he props himself up against the pillows, settling her thick thighs over his shoulders and groping at her ass to move her into place. He holds her up with no effort at all; she is only a little slip of a thing.

He’d tease her, ordinarily. If he had his way she’d be on her back whenever they did this, spread out for him with her feet dangling off the edge of the bed and her toes brushing his ear: him kneeling between her legs and nosing at her thighs and sucking kisses into her hipbones, metal arm slung across her belly to keep her in place. He likes it best when he can tease; likes to make her beg for it.

But he can’t, here, and so he gets right to it: just flattens his tongue and licks a firm stripe up over her, without warning, messy and slick.  

“ _Fuck,”_ she says, startled out of her.

James hums in response and Natasha can feel it, feel it vibrate against her skin, and _God_ but she’s already so close, fucking soaking wet and aching from her time spent teasing him, clit throbbing. Right away he starts up an easy rhythm: his tongue swiping firm and wet up between her folds, pushing at the hood of her clit with the tip, licking over it like he’s soothing a wound and then pulling what he can into his mouth to suck on. He does this again and again and again, eager and frantic and messy, and all Natasha can do is tip her head back and make helpless noises, mouth falling open. His tongue squirms over her clit, relentless, over and over, and she gasps, grinding down onto his face, putting her full weight on him. She’s so close already, so close for what feels like hours now, she just needs—

 “Use your fingers,” she commands, and she sounds _wrecked,_ already, even to her own ears, voice cracking. “C’mon.” James moans and immediately does as he’s told, always eager to please. He shifts his grip on her ass—firm, too firm; she’ll be left with fingerprint bruises after this but Jesus Christ she couldn’t care less—so he’s holding her up with only the metal hand, the fingers of the other sliding forward to circle around her entrance. His nose bumps at her clit when he shifts and she makes a tiny noise, involuntary, hips rocking.

“Oh,” she says, when he pushes two into her, blunt and thick and good. “That’s it.” He fucks her with them and he’s not gentle about it, pushing his fingertips against her walls and dragging them along the soft flesh there on each pull out. Natasha is left rocking hard against him, riding the push and pull of his fingers, as he crooks them and rubs right where she most wants it, right where it’s sweetest, his tongue still pushing insistent at her clit.

She’s right on the edge, and James knows just how to push her over it.

He shoves his fingers firm up into her and rubs hard and sucks her clit and as much as he can of the rest of her into his mouth, whining, and then like a feral dog at a feast he shakes his head and _growls,_ growls hungry and rough and low, low in his throat.

That’s it. Natasha chokes on a scream like she knows he wants her to, tightening up around his thick fingers inside her, and that’s it, she’s coming hard, shaking apart over him. “ _Oh,”_ she says, and it’s more of a whimper than anything. “Oh, James, fuck, good boy, you’re such a _good_ boy—”

She grabs his hair and pulls, pulls hard, grinding down on his tongue and fucking his face as he moans against her. It’s messy and hot and wet and _good,_ so fucking good, the kind of orgasm that hits you in waves, goes on and on and on until you’re not sure it will ever stop, lightning sparking down her spine and making her toes curl. James buries his face in her cunt, her juices dripping down his neck and his stubble scratching at her thighs, and suckles at her sweetly all the way through it, dragging the calloused pads of his fingers against her walls, as she pants and cries out and says his name and a dozen other sweeter stupid things, again and again, until the worst of it is over and she’s left panting, whimpering, hips rolling slowly, chasing the residual sparks.

Even then he keeps going, for a while: licking languid and unhurried over her folds, gathering up the slick there with little swipes of his tongue. She can feel his throat work and—oh, _fuck_ —goes stupid for a moment with that knowledge; that he’s trying to swallow down all he can of her. He pushes his fingers deeper—easy, now, with how wet and open she is—and rubs at her insides, lightly, almost tender, dragging the last aftershocks out from her. He keeps it up until Natasha can’t take it anymore, has to twist away from him with a quiet noise, oversensitive and overstimulated and hot, hot all over.

As soon as she’s off him he sucks in a breath, desperate, coughs wetly a few times as she flops down boneless next to him. She squeezes her eyes shut. “Fuck,” she pants, listening to him breathe next to her.

James shifts a little, groaning, and she rolls over, feeling blindly for him and tucking her face against his side. He lifts his arm to let her crawl in closer; drapes it over her shoulders and cards his fingers idly through her hair.

“Ugh,” she mumbles. “Stop that. You’re gonna get spunk in my hair.”

Natasha can feel his breathless laugh vibrate in his chest. He pulls his hand away and wipes it on the sheets instead. They’d been perfectly nice sheets, an hour ago. Oh well. She rolls onto her back and considers the ceiling, feeling shivery and sticky and _relaxed,_ really relaxed.

“Sorry,” she says, after a while. “Didn’t mean to suffocate you.”

 “Mm,” he says, shifting languidly to look at her, chest still heaving as he catches his breath. He smiles, crooked. “’s okay. Worse ways to go.”

Natasha tilts her head. “True,” she says, and her answering smile might be small, but it is genuine. She leans over and cups his jaw and kisses him: because he’s here, and she’s here, and she can. He kisses back, easy and soft and slow. He’s a debauched mess, still, his mouth and jaw and chin all wet from her slick. She can taste it.

“Hey,” she says when she pulls away, tips of their noses touching.

“Hi,” he breathes.

The corner of her mouth curls up into a smile. “So. You have fun tonight, old man?”

“You bet,” he says. “Yeah. You bet.”

This she holds onto, memorizing it and pulling it down deep into her chest: she can do good. She has done good. Tonight, at least, Natasha has done something good. She wants to say something flippant and snarky, to keep her distance, but he’s smiling at her with his sweat-damp hair in his eyes and she finds she can’t. “Good,” she says instead, feeling vulnerable for an instant. “That’s good.”

If James notices, he doesn’t mention it, bless him, just stretches out beside her with a tired sigh like a lazy cat, content. “Though, uh, you might need new sheets. Sorry.”

“Ugh.” She very deliberately does not look. “Those were new.”

“Sorry,” James says again, sleepy and unrepentant. “Disgrace me someplace else next time.”

There’s an idea. Natasha lifts her head to look at him. “ _Well_ ,” she says, and her voice is all challenge, “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a shower.”

He smirks, and all of a sudden he doesn’t sound so tired. “I ever tell you I like the way you think?”

**Author's Note:**

> I am also on [Tumblr](http://www.predatories.tumblr.com).


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